To Mr. POPE,

On the publishing his WORKS.

H

E comes, he comes! bid ev'ry Bard prepare The fong of triumph, and attend his Car. Great Sheffield's Mufe the long proceffion heads, And throws a luftre o'er the pomp fhe leads, First gives the Palm fhe fir'd him to obtain, Crowns his gay brow, and fhews him how to reign. Thus young Alcides, by old Chiron taught, Was form'd for all the miracles he wrought: Thus Chiron did the youth he taught applaud, Pleas'd to behold the earneft of a God.

But hark, what fhouts, what gath'ring crouds rejoice!

Unftain'd their praife by any venal Voice,
Such as th' Ambitious vainly think their due,
When Prostitutes, or needy Flatt'rers fue.
And fee the Chief! before him laurels born;
Trophies from undeferving temples torn;
Here Rage enchain'd reluctant raves, and there
Pale Envy dumb, and fick'ning with defpair,
Prone to the eatth fhe bends her loathing eye,
Weak to support the blaze of majesty.

But what are they that turn the facred page?
Three lovely Virgins, and of equal age;
Intent they read, and all enamour'd feem,
As he that met his likeness in the ftream:

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The GRACES thefe; and fee how they contend, 25
Who moft fhall praife, who beft fhall recommend.
The Chariot now the painful teep afcends,
The Peans ceafe; thy glorious labour ends.
Here fix'd, the bright eternal Temple ftands,
Its prospect an unbounded view commands:

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Say, wond'rous youth, what Column wilt thou chufe,
What laurel'd Arch for thy triumphant Mufe?
Tho' cach great Ancient court thee to his fhrine,
Tho' ev'ry Laurel thro' the dome be thine,
(From the proud Epic, down to those that shade 35
The gentler brow of the foft Lesbian maid)
Go to the Good and Juft, an awful train,
Thy foul's delight, and glory of the Fane:
While thro' the earth thy dear remembrance flies,
,,Sweet to the World, and grateful to the fkies.,,

SIMON HARCOURT.

To

Mr. POP E.

From Rome, 1730.

mmortal Bard! for whom each Mufe has wove

The fairest garlands of th' Aonian grove;
Preferv'd, our drooping Genius to reftore,
When Addison and Congreve are no more;
After fo many stars extinct in night,
The dark'ned ages laft remaining light!

To thee from Latian realms this verfe is writ,
Infpir'd by memory of ancient Wit;

For now no more thefe climes their influence boast,
Fall'n is their glory, and their virtue loft:
From Tyrants, and from Priefts, the Mufes fly,
Daughters of Reafon and of Liberty.

Nor Baie now, nor Umbria's plain they love,
Nor on the banks of Nar, or Mincia rove:
To Thames's flow'ry borders they retire,
And kindle in thy breaft the Roman fire.

So in the fhades, where chear'd with fummer rays
Melodious linnets warbled fprightly lays,
Soon as the faded, falling leaves complain
Of gloomy winter's unaufpicious reign,
No tuneful voice is heard of joy or love,
But mournful filence faddens all the grove.
Unhappy Italy! whofe alter'd itate
Has felt the worst feverity of Fate:
Not that Barbarian hands her Fafces broke,
And bow'd her haughty neck beneath their yoke;
Nor that her palaces to earth are thrown,

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Her Cities defert, and her fields unfown;

But that her ancient Spirit is decay'd,

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That facred Wifdom from her bounds is filed,
That there the fource of Science flows no more,
Whence its rich ftreams fupply'd the world before.
Illuftrious Naines! that once in Latium fhin'd,
Born to inftruct, and to command Mankind;
Chiefs, by whofe Virtue mighty Rome was rais'd,
And Poets, who thofe Chiefs fublimely prais'd!
Oft I the traces you have left explore,
Your afhes vifit, and your urns adore;

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Oft kifs, with lips devout, fome mould'ring ftone,
With ivy's venerable fhade o'ergrown ;
Those ballow'd ruins better pleas'd to fee
Than all the pomp of modern Luxury.

As late on Virgil's tomb fresh flow'rs I ftrow'd,
While with th' infpiring Mufe my bofom glow'd,
Crown'd with eternal bays my ravish'd eyes
Beheld the Poet's awful Form arife:
Stranger, he faid, whofe pious hand has paid
Thefe grateful rites to my attentive fhade,
When thou shalt breathe thy happy native air,
To Pope this meffage from his Mafter bear:

Great Bard, whofe numbers I myself inspire,
To whom I gave my own harmonious lyre,
If high exalted on the Throne of Wit,
Near Me and Homer thou afpire to fit,
No more let meaner Satire dim the rays
That flow majeftic from thy nobler Bays;
In all the flow'ry paths of Pindus ftray,
But fhun that thorny, that unpleasing way;
Nor, when each foft engaging Mufe is thine.
Addrefs the least attractive of the Nine.

Of thee more worthy were the task, to raise
A lafting Column to thy Country's Praife.
To fing the Land, which yet alone can boast
That Liberty corrupted Rome has loft;
Where Science in the arms of Peace is laid,
And plants her Palm beneath the Olive's fhade.
Such was the Theme for which my lire I ftrung,
Such was the People whofe exploits I fung;
Brave, yet refin'd, for Arms and Arts renown'd,
With diff'rent bays by Mars and Phoebus crown'd,

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Dauntless oppofers of Tyrannic Sway.
But pleas'd, a mild AUGUSTUS to obey.

If these commands fubmiffive thou receive,
Immortal and unblam'd thy name fhall live;
Envy to black Cocytus fhall retire,

And howl with Furies in tormenting fire;
Approving Time fhall confecrate thy Lays,
And join the Patriot's to the Poet's Praife.

GEORGE LYTTELTON.